


Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies

by Deizzz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hate Speech, M/M, Multi, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Redemption, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stream of Consciousness, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26718820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deizzz/pseuds/Deizzz
Summary: For the first time in many years Draco has time to sit and think. Think about his life, his youth, his future.Maybe because the war is over, maybe because he is locked in the Manor awaiting trial, maybe because he's not such a tosser anymore. Who are we to judge?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Harry Potter Fic





	1. Childhood is not from birth to a certain age

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a series of chapters heavily focused on Draco and his internal world. Everything that was not given to us in the books I try to put here into words. Obviously, some non-canon aspects, but will try to make them worth it.  
> This is not heavy on plot or smut or anything like that. I was inspired mostly by the fic “Running on Air” so this is the kind of feeling I want to recreate.
> 
> Super super thankful for any feedback, comments, kudos or baking recipes (one can never have too many)
> 
> Not as an excuse, but this is my first fic ever, so bear with me ^_^

Draco scanned the courtyard and eyed suspiciously the peacock closest to him.

“Stupid birds.”

But there was no venom in his speech. There was no point in hating those beautiful creatures; they just irked him the wrong way. The way they were added there as some sort of live decoration as if people wouldn’t know that was Malfoy Manor. As if they needed any more pompous tokens to represent them.  
At least the peacocks never disappointed; never doubted, never questioned.

“Merlin, Draco. Stop thinking about peacocks!”

His grandfather was fond of them and Draco was fond of his grandfather. He smiled to himself. Lucius resembled more the peacocks than he did Abraxas, but what can one do. Blood, wherever he was turning, blood stood there: the compass, the executioner, the blessing. He can remember Granger’s blood on Aunt Bella’s wand and a cold shiver embraced his spine. Where did his hate end and when did it start? Can someone just pinpoint the moment in time; bring him back with a time turner and say “Here, this is where you learned to hate.” Was it where or when? At least the moment his hate stopped, or more accurately, morphed, was easier to place in time and space. The moment she screamed and cried; blood mixed with tears.

Once when he was 10, before the letter, before school days, before all the darkness, he cut himself playing with his mini quidditch broom. Just a small cut right under his knee, but it stung and his eyes felt heavy. Whenever he would get hurt or see blood he would suddenly get very sleepy, as if asleep the wound would heal itself and just disappear. Or the world would disappear.  
That was how Narcissa found him, laying on his back, eyelids half closed, half watching the leaves. She quickly muttered an " _Episkey_ " and pulled him closer into her arms; he fell asleep before reaching the manor and woke in a warm bed.

When Granger was on the floor, the sleepiness failed to come; he often asked himself if that was a wake-up call or a goodbye to his youth. He would bet on the latter.

In the Manor’s library, stacked behind old potion books and scholarly texts from the 18th century, he found some muggle poetry books. The library trip had no specific purpose and, as curiosity always beats disgust, Draco started flipping through them. He found himself watching through the eyes of the virgin reader; neither hopeful nor judgemental, just there.  
Most of the poems were nothing special; not gag-inducing, not beautiful, just…poetry. But there was a line that he remembered now, that for some odd reason resonated: “Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies”. Was it true what the Muggle lady wrote?  
His childhood felt so far away and yet so close as if he could almost taste it with the tip of his tongue. Bellatrix had almost licked the tears on Granger’s cheek when straddling her in the middle of the Drawing room.

Many people died. Death, so so much death. Some African parrots live to be as old as 100; Crabbe died at 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU so much for reading! This is obvs just the beginning, planning to add much much more.


	2. The child is grown, and puts away childish things.

Days tend to get mushed together so easily, Draco decided. Maybe especially so for people who all they have to do is wait and wait and wait.

And Draco had time, or at least some sort of illusion of a borrowed time. He was tired of people buying him more time, of trying to save him and take care of him. If you’re asking him, he should’ve been dead for at least 2 years; not that he had any suicidal thoughts. Not anymore.

Survival’s guilt does not discriminate based on which side you are on; the baddies feel it too. “ I was such a piss poor version of a Death Eater” Draco chuckled. He was back in the Manor’s courtyard and so were the peacocks. So many wrong choices, so much pain. Getting the dark mark felt like death raping, slow and deliberate. It clung to his veins and poured that poison into each of his pores. Marked forever.

The second worst pain was Harry’s spell in the girls’ bathroom. But that pain was almost soothing; as if along with the blood, the dark ink found its way into the water on the bathroom floor and away from him. He really should’ve died at the hands of The Chosen One. Did that make him also The Boy Who Lived?

Harry had looked terrified, as if he was ready to gather the spilled blood into his hands and drip it back into Draco. His hair was always such a mess, damn Potter being too much of a hero to use a comb and get a trim.

All that Draco wanted was for it to be over soon and a soft hand on his cheek or the hair gently brushing his face, that looked very soft too. It was rather embarrassing, but that has always been his favourite sign of affection and warmth; hugs are too intense and smiles can can only sooth as much.

Of course he survived and Harry never touched his cheek or combed his own hair. During the Battle, when Voldemort declared Harry Potter dead and did his sinister victory dance, Draco mourned for the fact that Harry received no warm touch, no last hug. And the selfish part in him mourned that Harry would never sooth him, never be there long enough to maybe work out their troubles, have a firewiskey and maybe...be friends, be something.

Did Harry almost become a ghost along with Myrtle? Draco broke in two the tiny branch he was holding: Myrtle was sweet and a way way better friend that he ever expected from a ghost that enjoyed stalking boys while they’re having baths, but not a companion for eternity. Does he even deserve such a companion?


	3. And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg my first Kudos!!! I am simply blown away! Thank you to whoever is reading my ramblings, I so appreciate it!  
> My next chapters with focus on different events that Draco remembers; they will not be exactly linearly and he’s not exactly making much sense all the time, but so it goes.

Draco was a murder, and a piss poor one. He could sense a pattern there: bad Death Eater, lousy murderer, average Quidditch player. Killing Dumbledore had obviously been a failure, but all the other people that died because of the damned Vanishing Cabinet were his fault.

The first time he locked the canary in the cabinet and opened it again to find the bird dead, Draco wanted to run as far away as possible. He wanted to give in his resignation and go live in France or something. Fora few minutes he actually believed he had killed the bird; that the cabinet had something wrong, or some sort of a twisted blood lust. 

It had actually been Dolohov that had murdered it, and in that small death Draco saw the waves of hundreds of lives lost. So much pain rippling around him, in him...

_Two, four, six, eight... Two, four, six, eight..._ These days not much keeps him focused, keeps him sane and in the present, besides focusing on counting his fingers two by two. It has to be two by two else the mirage is broken and he is back in the pool of his mind. According to some muggle books of psychology he must have some sort of PTSD or trauma, but as far as Draco knows, he deserves it.

Back when Voldemort had honoured the Malfoys by living in their Manor, Draco was counting two by two every time he was out of his room. He would button his shirt, push gently his bedroom door and start the counting. Bella once commented about it during their Occlumency sessions but didn’t care enough about him to dig deeper. Coming out in the world after spending your youth in Azkaban probably makes a dash of obsessive counting a stroll in the park.

He was counting tokeep himself calm, in control, but above all to keep away that smell; it was like festering magic, rotten wand core and abomination. He will never forget that scent and the Manor will never not smell of it. That’s why he kept mostly to the garden where plants grew and died and grew again and nothing stayed imbued in death forever. The Manor had always been dark and heavy, like a familiar blanket that covers and protects you, sometimes a bit too smouldering. But after Voldemort it had become a crypt and made him a ghost.

_Two, four, six_ was all he could manage when Ron, Hermione and a disfigured boy were brought to the Manor. He knew that was Harry; it was his hair and it was his scent that had the aroma of fresh, healthy soil and of something close to what hope would smell like. Harry was there, in his house, on his floor and he was desperate and disfigured and still the best damn thing Draco had seen in months. He lied through his teeth to dear auntie Bella, he lied through all his atoms and pores and soul pieces, he lied like his life depended on it. Because it did, it so did.

He wanted to beg Potter to take him wherever he was going; he wanted to ask Potter to run his fingers through his hair and say that all will be fine, that it was all just a bad dream. But that was insanity and no amount of counting or begging or dreaming would result in that. Hermione’s cries didn’t even allow him to count to four and the one look in Potter’s green eyes meant death; so he stood like a statue, half there, half dreaming of a normal family, normal childhood, normal life. In one blink of an eye he imagined being friends with Harry, Harry happy and cheerful and well fed, Draco happy and cheerful and not fed up of life at 18.

Dobby’s help and rescue had him count to twelve for the first time in months; had his heart beat so hard that the inside of his wand was throbbing too, his fingers a ghostly grip looking close to breaking the wood. He dreamt for weeks after that about jumping in with them, going to whatever promised land or dump they were going to, anywhere but there. He recited hundreds of apology speeches for each of the people he wounded, but each dream would end with Harry, his big green eyes saying “I forgive you” and a bony hand threading fingers through his hair. 


	4. Having a coke with you (part 1)

Draco had to admit, he was a bit hooked up on Muggle poetry; maybe that was the universe giving him a message, maybe someone actually planted the books in the Manor to test him. Anyhow, the poems were nice. It always started with him watching the highly decorated ceiling of the library: constellation after constellation shining above him, with Draco the brightest, almost like a mockery. Then he would slowly unglue himself from the couch and start perusing; all the classics and school books and worn-out covers hundreds of years old got boring very very fast, so all he could do was move to the hidden shelves, so dusty that they could’ve been put there by Merlin himself. Maybe he used to be a bit of a racist, but now he did not discriminate; he checked covers after covers and duplicated his favourites on fresh pieces of parchment.

 _Having a coke with you.._ Who could he have a coke with? He’d had one in his youth, during a moist summer in the French seaside, his mother smiling widely at his surprised face when the bubbles hit him. He could definitely have another one with her, but not in the spirit of the poem... It had something bittersweet, some sort of longing and sense of misplacing and misplaced.

He could have a coke with Hermione and Ron maybe and apologise for everything even though most likely they would pour it on his head. Draco was sure that it would make everything sticky sweet, but so is life. He would tell them that he doesn’t hate them, never did, that it was just some sort of juvenile jealousy for limitless wits and a family that loves you for who you are, plain and simple. Hermione would look concerned and Ron would laugh at first and then get ready to punch him, but the punch would never come and both of them would awkwardly forgive him and sip the coke in silence.

He would like to have a coke with Pansy, touch her dark thick hair and tell her she’s worth more than all the coke trucks and stupid pureblood wizards in the world; that he hopes she will find her way somewhere far from this bleary England. She would kiss his knuckles lovingly and call him a tosser and smile and smile and smile.

Having a coke with Crabbe would require a dash of fire whiskey; not sure if those two go together but anyhow... Crabbe was never a feelings or even words guy, he would just do what he was told and the rest of the time focus on his trees. For such a simple man, he really had a strong connection with nature. People would praise Longbottom and call him Herbology Hermione, but Crabbe was the real deal. At his family’s village estate, he would check the status of potatoes, converse about how the corn was doing and come up with better ways to keep pests away. He’d prune apple trees and water the strawberries and ask the villagers for updates and advice. And it was all done with his hands, you’d think he was some sort of a Squib; but no, our Vincent just liked touching and healing the soil. His father got tired of beating him up when Crabbe turned 9; he taciturnly accepted his son was not an elegant nobleman and focused more on his brothers and sisters. He was a brute, but also a salt of the earth man. He was a bully, but he was also his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, you guys are still here and I got one more kudos! Sorry if I’m a bit obnoxious, but I am so so thankful. These days I feel very inspired so I hope I can add every day a new chapter; I honestly don’t want it to ever end. Let me know if you have any feedback and have an awesome day!🌸


	5. Having a coke with you (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really like poetry so I want to incorporate some poems that I think Draco might find cool. Hope you like it!

Having a coke with Potter would be interesting to say the least. They’d both be awkward: Draco because of the previous obsessive thoughts of Potter’s hair and his hair in Potter’s fingers and you know, all the maiming and Harry because he’s Harry and he doesn’t know how not to worry and fret and be absolutely perfect.

They’d both look small, hunched over their drinks and carrying the weight of their past on their shoulders. He would refrain from looking into the green eyes, would focus on saying words as eloquently as possible; words such as “You saved...” and “I am...” and a “Sorry” fizzling along with the coke bubbles. And then Harry would laugh and Draco would call him a bloody tosser and try to get up and leave, but thin and strong fingers would keep him there, half turned, half stunned.

He would then really look at Potter, see the pain so deep inside him that Draco could crawl in there and heal and caress and soothe. Sitting back down, at the table, he would recite the made up words for the coke poem, one of the thousands of versions concocted while idly living his life these days:

_Having a coke with you is even more fun than Quidditch on a sunny but crisp day_

_Or going to Paris, Moscow, London, Albania or even Romania (and they have dragons!)_

_Or getting a sugar rush at Honeydukes Partly because in your Muggle t-shirt and jeans you look like a normal human being and not the bloody saviour of the Wizard Race_

_Partly because of my obsession with you, partly because of your obsession for Treacle tarts_

And then they would laugh and laugh with their knees gently pressed and the coke fizzling away, forgotten on some corner of the table.

And Potter would blush and ask him questions, real, proper questions about his likes and dreams and hopes and books and would listen with his head propped on one hand and his smile everlasting.

And Draco would ask Harry where he can get some jeans, some proper ones not ratty and with holes, which would make him laugh even louder and promise to buy some for his birthday. In his dreams, Potter knows when it’s his birthday.

_I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world,_

_except for the one of Sir Codogan occasionally and anyway it’s at Hogwarts which thank heavens you saved so we can go again together for the first time_

_And what good does all the research of the Wizards do them when they never saw you stand at this table with the sun setting behind or for that matter Dumbledore when he picked you to die_


	6. Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems that I will be able to update the story each night, hope the muses will stay beside me! Thank you for reading and please do let me know what you think! 🌸

The fatidic day it all went to hell and back the sky was blue and there was a sort of calmness in the air that promised something. Draco had gotten dressed up, washing his hands 3 times absentmindedly while gathering the courage to get out of his bedroom. He peeked once more outside, hating and loving how nature just did it’s thing, not caring about Lords and supremacy and Potters.

He started counting again, and with that counting in his mind and breakfast coffee on his breath he came to learn about the plan for the day: invade Hogwarts, kill Harry. As if one’s mother shared the schedule for the play-day and insisted on a return before dinner.

It was a miracle that kept Draco from puking on his shoes right in front of Voldermort. Another miracle was his mother pulling him in the grand library and telling him to do what he has to do and be safe. She wiped a tear off her cheek and hugged Draco harder than anyone has ever been hugged before. And in that crushing hug of love Draco promised and promised that all will be fine, all will be good. It was, of course, an empty promise, but worse things have been said when people are heading to their deaths.

He was painfully aware of each step on the carpet, marble, carpet, wood and finally grass. The sun almost blinded him and in that moment Draco wanted to kneel and die right there in the garden; be covered by a nice and warm layer of soil and grass and lie there forever. Soil smelled so good and birds would lull him to death and all will be forgotten and forgiven.

There was some sort of plan, and there was some sort of purpose, but for him words had no meaning anymore. He stood in front of Hogwarts with a heart of stone and the eyes of an eleven year old for whom life had so many promises. He watched himself back then extending an arm to Potter and managing to drive him away with that wicked mouth of his; just one small change, a kinder smile and Potter’s hand would’ve been in his, sealing his fate and future. 

But here he was, with Aunt Bella in front dancing like a tribal madwoman and his mother next to him looking like a marble Cassandra.

There was nothing between that moment and standing in front of Harry in the Room of Requirement; his mouth got so dry, as if the Fiendfyre was coming from inside him and not Crabbe’s wand. 

Potter’s green eyes reflected the red of the flames and in that moment he looked more ancient and deadlier than any Dark Lord; but the moment passed in a blink of an eye and Harry pulled him on the broom. He was Beatrice, or maybe Harry was his Beatrice guiding him through Hell and into Paradise.

Touching him was intense; so intense that even through the layers of fear, or fire, of disbelief, he could feel Harry’s muscles contracting and his body heat that competed with that of the Fiendfyre. He was life, and that smell of hope and fresh soil filled again Draco’s nose and soul, replacing burnt flesh and Crabbe’s final screams. He pulled himself as close as possible and breathed in the dark hair plastered to Harry’s neck. There is a time and place to be a bit of a creep, but they were dying so to hell with it.

Draco was fast drowning in his dream world, where Harry would touch his face and pull him into a hug almost as strong as Narcissa’s; and Harry would cry and Draco would cry and Harry’s lips would be so shiny and red and bitten...

His hand was slowly reaching for Potter’s wrist but he stopped himself in time and then the flight was over and his saviour was gone without paying him as much of a glance.

How did that cursed line go? “Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die”....


	7. Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die?

That old Tennyson lad had looked particularly pained on the cover of his poetry book; he appeared to be somewhere very far away, stuck in older times, together with his mythology and tragic figures. Draco would never admit it, but he identified the most with the nymph Oenone, abandoned by her beloved Paris for “the fairest and most loving wife in Greece”.

He would’ve liked to think it’s because of the abandonment part since Draco felt let down by his father, by his professors, by fate itself. But it was not exactly that; something deep down in him, an abyss of silence, like a pool of stagnant water filled with rotten weeds was screaming “Harry! Harry! Harry!”

When Potter failed to shake his hand, Draco felt small and weak and unimportant. It was not fair to blame it on him, of course; Draco was to blame way more. And Harry took some kinder hands, hands that loved and used him with equal strength.

In a twisted way, Draco felt responsible for Harry’s misfortunes, for how he was moulded to be a tragic hero, the proverbial sacrificial lamb. And he never failed to deliver, as he slowly but steadily went for his demise in the corrupted shape of Voldemort.

That vile creature, that abomination, had actually danced when announcing that Potter is dead. There was no sight in the world more sickening and against all that’s natural than that.

A part of Draco died then and there, among the lost and dirty faces filled with adrenaline and not realising that everything was done for. His beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, was dead and no one was going to save him from the cruelty of the world. Another piece of him was shattered when the abominable welcomed him with a hug. A bloody hug from Voldemort…

He was nothing like Potter had felt on the broom, he just felt like nothing and stank of death so deeply that it basically was his very essence. Rotting soil, rotten soul.

The trees were in full bloom, with cherries waiting to pop from their stems and strawberries as big as fists. The pond was calm, save for a couple of excited fish bouncing around joyfully. Sun rays were allowed to penetrate the protection spell cast on the garden and you could actually feel them on your skin. And then dust, so so much dust and destroyed walls and Troy falling in the form of Hogwarts after Voldemort’s wrath.

 _Two.._ Potter come back!

 _Four.._ People need you!

 _Six.._ Harry, please!

 _Eight.._ I need..

And then Potter was jumping from Hagrid’s arms, wet from sweat and the giant’s tear, but burning so brightly. It was the deep mid-noon and one silver cloud had lost its way on the summer sky. Draco’s legs had moved by themselves and his hand let go of his wand and threw it at Harry’s feet. His mouth quivered, as almost asking “Why?” or “Since when?”, butthen two spells met and it was almost the end of the beginning.

Someone had taken his hand at some point, and when Draco looked around he saw Narcissa by his side, looking more beautiful and broken than ever. She whispered in his ear “I lied too” and a childish smile appeared on her lips. Not too far, his father had his fall from grace painted darker and darker upon his face.

Then the rest is history. As Draco was preparing to leave, disapparate along with his parents, Harry caught his wrist and just stared at him for what seemed like years. He then whispered a choked “Draco…” and Draco let the biggest smile escape his heart; a smile that he never knew he even had inside him, but once let out, refused to go away. Then Potter smiled and chuckled and let him leave. Dear mother Ida, harken ere I might survive for a little bit longer.


	8. A boy's will is the wind's will

“Your garden is very impressive” said Potter, biting his lip and trying very hard not to look like he was ready any moment to disapparate.

“Yes, I like to call it the Hesperides of my boyish dreams” The moment Draco said it he wanted to be eaten alive by the peacocks. What was he trying to do, woo Potter with Muggle poetry?

“Did someone cast a Confundus or you just quoted Longfellow, Malfoy?” The surprised looked made his eyes even bigger, and Draco found it was his turn to be impressed.

It was getting awkward way faster than Draco imagined, so he opted to just cough slightly and guide Potter towards a bench close to the blooming rose bushes.

“Potter, I would love to stay here all day and discuss poetry with you, but why are you here?”

A slight breeze was forever bewitched to blow slightly in the Malfoy gardens; Narcissa insisted is crucial for the aromas to spread evenly and not give visitors the feeling of unnatural stillness. But the cursed breeze also made Potter’s scent travel, and it was better than 1000 rose bushes.

_'A boy's will is the wind's will,_

_And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'_

I am losing my mind and turning into a bloody dog; is this a lingering effect from the ferret transformation in the 4th year? Are ferrets even masters at scenting?

Potter smiled shyly and, even though that mop that Potter called hair was covering them almost entirely, it seemed that his ears were quite a dashing shade of red.

“I can do poetry. Poetry is good.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, ready to go ahead and check the Saviour’s sanity and cognitive abilities, but Harry continued

“ I am actually here to give you something.” And he took out from his bag a simple black box.

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. Was it really what he was thinking it was?

“This belongs to you. I want to thank you for forcefully lending it me. It has served me a great deal, but now it has to come back to you.”

The box was almost calling him, so Draco extended gingerly a hand and took the box, touching Harry’s fingers for only a second, making him clear his throat and turn his eyes form the box.

His wand..his very wand! It felt just like it did 7 years ago when it chose him from all the wizards in the world. Draco realised that this was the only thing in his life that actually chose him: his parents had no saying in the child they were getting, and most of his friendships started from family connections and mutually beneficial purposes, but this, this right here wanted him and only him. Apparently also Potter a bit, but Draco also wanted Potter a bit. He looked up at Harry and let out a smile not very different from the one right after Voldemort was defeated.

“I should’ve given it back to your right after Voldemort, I am sorry for that”

“I guess dying and coming back to life tends to make you quite forgetful, so all forgiven. I have done so many disgusting and terrible things with this wand, but it also birthed my first Lumos…so thank you” Stroking gently the wand, Draco continued:

“Do you think I am redeemable, Potter? Do you think there’s any hope?” There was no point of coming back once the words were out, so he stared directly into Harry’s eyes, bracing himself for the reply.

“Draco, there's always hope. You and I are the living proof. And I really did mean everything I said during the trial; I do believe you don’t belong in Azkaban and…”

Harry glanced around, trying to fix his eyes on the rose bush on Draco’s left side, but his eyes kept dancing back to the white-haired boy. He was trying to find his words, or maybe to choose them wisely. It seemed that finally the words were arranged properly because he smiled gingerly and opened his mouth to finally say them.

“Mr Potter, we are ready to go” a tall man in dark robes sat right in front of them, bearing a stern and almost bored look.

“Right, thank you, Roberts. I am also done here.” The magic of the moment was gone, and with one final look, Harry shook tightly Draco’s hand.

“I hope we can meet again, Malfoy”

“My agenda is wide open, Potter, so consider yourself invited any day for lunch” Uhhh, I sound exactly like all his bloody fans, hold it together, Draco.

And with a smile on his face, Harry touched lightly his shoulder and nodded. By the time Draco recovered from the touch, the two men were long gone and the garden was once again silent. His mind was a blank canvas, on which one single stanza kept playing and replaying:

_I can see the breezy dome of groves,_

_The shadows of Deering's Woods;_

_And the friendship old and the early loves_

_Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves_

_In quiet neighborhoods._

_And the verse of that sweet old song,_

_It flutters and murmurs still:_

_'A boy's will is the wind's will,_

_And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, this is my first dialogue scene, so excuse the awkwardness. I am planning to include way more of this in the future and I think it was high time the two of them had a proper scene together!
> 
> Thank you so so much for all the reads and kudos, you make my quarantine evenings a blast!
> 
> Stay healthy ^_^!


	9. I am half sick of shadows

Potter’s visit did not do much to soothe Draco’s mind; he was trying to keep the thoughts at bay by pacing back and front close to the rose bushes where both of them once sat. But relief is slow to come to those who seek it so intently…and so Draco sat on one of the stone benches, put his head on his hands and contemplated.

How will he manage with having Potter for lunch? Would he even keep his promise and visit? I guess with being the chosen one comes the responsibility to always keep your promises. The poor sod.

A gentle pop and a swift gush of air announced the coming of Pimky, his house-elf.

“Pimky wants to tell Master Malfoy that Mister Potter is waiting in the Drawing Room. Pinkie rubbed her tiny hands together in distress, visibly bothered by the words that were planning to go out of her mouth.“Mister Potter said…he is famished, Sir”

Draco’s already pale face turned ghostly; this is fate again coming to get him. No single human can have so much bad luck two days in a row. But yet again, maybe this is a sign that he and Harry should be friends, that what was started seven years ago is bound to finally happen. Or maybe he will piss off Scarhead so badly that he will throw him into Azkaban and swallow the key.

_“Focus, Draco. Maybe not calling him Scarhead would be a first step into staying alive”_

_“Thank_ you Pimky, I will be inside in a moment. Please show Mister Potter to the dining room and offer him a drink”

The moment the elf let a small pop, Draco was running towards his bedroom to splash some water on his face and pray to Merlin his big mouth will not get him in trouble. Truthfully, he was not scared of Potter’s influence over the Ministry or the whole world; it was actually something closely resembling shame and the deeply rooted desire for the boy to like him, really like him and seek his presence. But Draco will never say these words out loud, they have to stay buried under Potter’s smell of fresh soil and hope.

“Hello Potter, fancy seeing you here!” Draco tried to sound aloof and cool as a cucumber, using the same smug and superior expression he mastered in his youth at the Manor.

“You do live here, and you did invite me for lunch, Malfoy.” Harry said looking confused and a bit amused.

“Of course, and you will find that the Manor has one of the best lunches available” Merlin, Draco, have you gone barmy? Are you selling him your services? Get it together!

At this Potter started properly laughing and ask Draco in between chuckles: “Why do you know Muggle poetry?”

Annoyed by Harry’s laughter, Draco was caught off guard; he couldn’t possibly say that Harry was hope for him, and everything Muggle reminded him of Harry, ergo poetry was something that gave him hope and a purpose.

“I have finished most of the books in Malfoy Manor, so I tried some of the exotic choices available. Poetry, one can say, is magic in itself, so it is not important who produced it” It was a good answer and Draco was proud of coming up with it.

“The Slytherin Hermione” Harry laughed again and with each smile, Draco’s heart was doing another somersault.

“ I beg your pardon? Potter, you offend me in my own house” but there was no malice behind the words, there was no venom, just pure joy and laughter between two old…acquaintances.

Harry’s laughter started to slowly tone down and he was looking at Draco, really looking at him, with an intensity that was magical and scary and absolutely beautiful.

“There is hope for you, Draco. You are not a bad man”

_Two…_

And in that moment Draco could’ve been the lady of Shalott stopping her weaving to go in search of her Lancelot. May all the mirrors in the Manor break, to hell with all of them.

F _our…_

He took a step closer to Harry, whose face was so open, so honest as if he was saying “I mean it, I truly do” and Draco could not stop his steps until he was facing Potter directly.

_Six…_

“I am half sick of shadows” was what came out of Draco’s mouth and then he was hugging Harry, squeezing as if his dear life was holding on to it as if that was the answer to all the questions he ever asked or will ever ask.

“Me too…” said Harry and squeezed right back and rubbing slowly Draco’s back up and down, left and right, never lingering for too long in one spot and never stopping the movement of the hand.

By the time Draco was close to _Eight…,_ Pimky appeared in the room announcing that lunch was to be served. He wanted to jump back, but Harry held him tightly and only let go of him gradually as if two lovers that were not yet ready to depart and had all the time in the world to detangle.

Blushing heavily, they took a seat at the table facing each other; Draco was concentrated on his place, avoiding checking Harry’s eye as if scared to see them filled with disgust or shame.

“I will have to go back to the Ministry after lunch, but would you like to meet again maybe this weekend? I can provide lunch this time, even though it won’t be the best one available, I’m sure” he smirked and Draco wanted to punch him; a friendly punch, but still a punch/

“Unfortunately I am still in house arrest or, as the Aurors put it, strongly advised not to leave the Manor’s premises” his mouth was curled and smug, but his eyes shadowed sadness and disgust at his imprisonment.

“Oh, that can be arranged. I will talk to Kingsley and have it all arranged by them. You won’t be kept away from pancakes on my watch”

Looking confused and excited at the prospect of leaving finally the Manor after months of confinement, Draco chuckled and muttered something that sounded closely like “ Nutter Potter”.

When lunch was over, they both left their seat at the same time and headed towards the fireplace. Harry was the first to speak:

“That was indeed delicious food, Malfoy, happy I came properly hungry to really enjoy it”

“You sir are a savage and you have the manners of a sea urchin, but glad you stopped by” He did not know what to do: hug Potter? Was this something they were doing now?

But Harry saved the moment by extending his hand and shaking Malfoy’s swiftly but with a smile on his face. With his free arm, he gently touched Draco’s shoulder and said:

“See you very soon, Malfoy, and stay away from Lancelot!” With these words he jumped into the green flames and Draco was left once again angry at his newly found poetic soul.

When the bloody hell did Potter read and memorise all these poems? Was he a poetry prodigy?

Potter Poetry Prodigy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, another semi dialogue chapter, these are tough! I hope you enjoy it and poetry references. I am in love with everything connected to poetry and wanted to instil a bit of that in the fic too. (let me know if you would like a list or more details)
> 
> Thank you loads for all the reads and kudos (OMG I GOT TO 5 which is insane!!) and hope you will come back for more.
> 
> Stay healthy!


	10. Chapter 10

_ All is arranged for this weekend. I have prepared a Portkey for 11. BE PREPARED!!! _

_ PS Is Tennyson your favourite, Malfoy? ( Yes, we will talk Muggle poetry) _

_ _

_ -HP _

Draco stared at the parchment with his eyebrows glued to his forehead; first of all he was not expecting such a fast answer, the lunch had only been a couple of days ago and secondly, again the Potter Poetry Prodigy!What was he supposed to do? Write lines and comment on them? Send a book? Bloody Potter always being a mystery and a tease.

And where was he planning to take Draco? No location was ever mentioned, but he hoped it was somewhere outside and a bit strange, maybe a Muggle coffee shop or some London Muggle Park. Potter had said something about pancakes and that was the only clue he had. Closing his eyes slightly, he imagined going to a public place with Harry, somewhere where no one would recognise them and just…chatting and being people. Maybe casually touching at points since that had been quite a decent add on; quite worth a repeat. The boy was nowhere near as scrawny as he looked and promises of tight muscles and lean lines were flowing behind Draco’s eyes.

“Merlin, I am mental! Focus, Draco! Poetry!”

Sitting at his desk, Draco drew his quill and started writing:

“ _Brilliant. I AM ALWAYS PREPARED!_

_ Tennyson is ONE of my favourites. I may or may not be very fond of Oenone and Tithonus and casually about the Lady of Shalott. And because I feel very generous in terms of poetry sharing, I will let you know that T.S Eliot is also one of my favourites. _

_ Yours, Potter? “ _

_ -Draco Malfoy _

On point, a bit sharp, a bit of info sharing, very normal Draco like and not screaming at all “ I’m into you, Potter!’ He was proud of the letter and also... a bit excited.

Potter will for sure ask for quotes and start reciting in random places like a proper tosser and Draco couldn’t wait for it. He pulled another piece of parchment and starting listing possible discussion topics:

“ Non-Safe quotes to use around Potter:

_I am half sick of shadows_ - weepy, already made and arse of myself with it, results in mopey hugs (not the worst, but better be avoided)

_ She hath no loyal knight and true,  _

_The Lady of Shalott._ \-  is somewhat a lie, Potter is obviously his loyal knight. Saved him from Azkaban and all that so again, not fair to mention.

_ O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,  
_ _Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die_. \- will definitely trigger the hero’s guilt plus kind of a wanker move since Potter saved his life multiple times.

Safe quotes to be used:

~~_ Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris _ ~~ , very beautiful P...aris, no evil in that heart, better leave it

~~_ He prest the blossom of his lips to mine _ ~~ ,  Draco, who the hell uses casually this quote? Get a grip!

_ From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born,  _

_A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born_ ,-  this actually sounds a bit like Potter’s fate, no? An orphan all his life but quite “king-born”

~~_ If gazing on divinity disrobed  _ ~~

~~_ Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair,  _ ~~

~~_Unbias'd by self-profit, oh!_~~ - it’s obvious here who the divinity disrobed is, and Potter mortal, but striking green eyes, might not be able to handle

~~_ Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms  _ ~~

~~_ Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest  _ ~~

~~_ Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew  _ ~~

~~_ Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains  _ ~~

~~_ Flash in the pools of whirling Simois! “ _ ~~

Draco crossed the final quote and decided that he was not to be trusted with poetry for the time being. He prepared the initial response to Potter and tied it to his owl’s foot gently. We shall see...


End file.
